A Coward in Red
by An Actual Lion
Summary: Hadvar and Ralof had been friends since they were barely able to hold a wooden sword, but the Civil War drives them further apart as they soon realize they have ended up pointing swords at one another. Rated T for violence and Language.
1. Prologue

The smell of burning bodies was almost overwhelming, clogging Hadvar's nose as he and a lone prisoner dashed their way through the once proud city. The cries of the dying and the looming roar of the beast overhead was deafening. The wood masts holding up the buildings around him began to crumble and crack as the flames ate through their sturdiness. Helgen was burning, along with everyone in it.

Hadvar remembered, as he was told as a child, that smoke was a far more dangerous assassin than its firey brother. It could infiltrate your lungs and bring you to your knees before you could even realize it was there. Black smog billowed around the soldier, blinding him, and promising that all the stories about it were true, as Hadvar would find out if he did not move. Fast.

Coughing violently, the soldier dashed through the ever growing rubble, the lone prisoner behind him. "Stay close prisoner, if you want to live!" He shouted behind him, praying that the lanky khajiit heard him. Fear set in his stomach like ice, the only thing resembling cold in this hellish state. Looking around him, Hadvar had to wonder if he had not passed into the realm of Oblivion by some awful mistake.

When there seemed to be no hope in sight, a single beat of the beast above's wings cleared the smoke in front of them, showing the path to the Helgen Keep. To their last hope of survival. "Come on, into the keep!" Hadvar ordered, covering his mouth with his hand as soon as he finished speaking, trying to inhale as little of the black fog as possible, looking behind him one last time before making the dash to make sure the prisoner was still tailing him. To his relief she was.

It was almost too easy making their way to the keep, like a gift from the divines. Like Hadvar was being rewarded for surviving this long. But just when hope had replaced the frozen terror in his gut, another sight caused him to skid to a hault, one worse than the burning city.

"Ralof!" He snarled. The blonde nord was decked in a blue cuirass. A stormcloak soldier's uniform. Hadvar had seen him while they were rounding up the prisoners, before the black dragon was upon them. But he had chosen not to believe it. Now he faced the realization head on. "You damned traitor! Out of my way!"

The bound khajiit was caught in the middle between the two of them, looking to and fro at both the nords, glaring at the other like they would risk a firey death just to get at each other's throats. But with a final glance, the prisoner made her choice and ran to Hadvar, who had his sword drawn in the stormcloak's direction.

It was nearly impossible, tearing his gaze from Ralof. Hadvar grit his teeth, a knot forming in his throat. The betrayal of it all stung him worse than any burn. Hadvar had to convince himself that the growing tears were from the harshness of the fire. Shaking his head, the imperial soldier had to rip himself away from the stand off with what he once considered his most dear friend to open the keep. To lead himself and the prisoner to safety. Once the prisoner was inside, Hadvar took one last look at where Ralof had been. But he was gone.


	2. Part I: Wooden Swords and Shaky Legs

** Hello again! For those of you who follow me for The Lion King themed stuff, I promise that I am still working on RTP as well. But this was an idea that I really needed to get out of my head and onto paper… Well, computer really. **

** For those of you following me for Elder Scrolls stuff, I'll have other fics under that category coming soon also after I finish or get further in CiR. If you want regular updates on how my writings are going, follow me at .com, which is my Elder Scrolls themed blog. Thank you! Leave a review if you can, I love feedback!**

Hadvar didn't remember his family's upheaval to Riverwood, a small, quiet town south of Whiterun. He heard stories from his father, a humble baker, and his uncle of his mother, who had died in the Great War. They told tales of her valiance and her bravery, her loyalty to the Empire. No one was aware of the exact circumstances of her death, as her body was never recovered. But one of her commanding officers managed to secure but one piece of her armor, her helmet. His Uncle Alvor often teased him later on in life with stories of how his young three year old self used to try it on, only to find it far too big each time.

But not only was Riverwood Hadvar's first home, of which he could remember, it was also the first place that he and Ralof crossed paths. Ralof's family also resided in Riverwood, in charge of the town milling operation. The youngsters were only a year apart, Ralof being the older at age four when they first met. From what Hadvar was told, they were the best of friends from the get go.

It was not the first time Hadvar had been told of how he was an affectionate child. When he and Ralof first met, Hadvar had run up to the blonde boy and embraced him, giggling like a mad man. Of course, Ralof was more than happy to have found a new friend, and so close in age. Alvor would often babysit them, as he worked from home as a blacksmith while Hadvar's father was out selling his baked goods and Ralof's family worked the lumber.

They would play with the neighborhood hounds, pretending they were great beasts to be slain with their imaginary bows and swords. Together, Hadvar and Ralof believed they could take on the world, even as mere toddlers barely able to speak a full sentence. Most often joked they were brothers in another lifetime. And neither of the boys, nor their families, objected.

It was just after Hadvar's fourth birthday, that Alvor, with the aid of Ralof's parents, decided to give both the young lads a present. Hand crafted wooden swords, just their size, and blunt enough to prevent any real damage to either child. It was just the thing the boys needed to make their fantasties just that much closer to becoming realities. Both of them would have a practice partner at their disposal every hour of the day. They would be swordsman before anyone knew it.

Hadvar was the most excited with his new weapon, immediately putting it to good use. Slaying imaginary monsters that plagued his birthday party and home. Ralof was also more than happy to join in his friends' hunt, letting loose a high pitched shout as he charged into battle alongside his comrade. They sliced at the air, declaring the invisible beasts vanquished with each swipe. And at the end of their hours long battle, they put their stubby arms around one another to congratulate themselves on a fight well fought.

This play would go one for days afterwards. In and outside of whomever's house they claimed their battlefield for the time being. The monsters would come in droves, and even so were helpless to defend themselves against the tiny warriors. Warriors their ancestors would proud to call their own. Ralof was always one to charge in headfirst on his own, while Hadvar commanded his made up armies into detailed formations that would be impenetrable to the enemy.

Hardly ever did the idea to battle one another with their swords come to mind. Even when it was suggested, the boys chose to battle side by side rather than pit themselves against one another. Ralof often had a witty response to the suggestion, speaking of how it was unwise for armies to fight amongst themselves. Such rebuttals often got a laugh out of whoever was watching them that day. Even the hardest elders in the town couldn't help but smile watching the boys, listening to their mumbled banter.

On one particular occasion, the boys imagined a great dragon of old descending upon their grand kingdoms of their minds. Burning their poor civilians, the little kings decreed war against this beast, and met it head on together! The townsfolk watched as the young boys, knowing each other so well, fought perfectly in sync against the fake drake. It was almost mesmerizing. A beauty. Young innocents being so brave in the face of danger, albeit made up. All for the cause of fighting together. Side by side as brothers.

At the end of the battle with the great dragon, Ralof clutched his chest and let out a cry of false agony. He collapsed to the ground, declaring that he had been hit by the oh so fearsome drake during their battle, and had used his last ounce of strength held Hadvar fight it off. It was for the good of the Kingdom, he said. Hadvar looked horrified at his 'dying' comrade, and begged him to keep going, that the healers would be there soon. But Ralof insisted that even magicka could not save him now, and asked Hadvar to take good care of their kingdom they had built. With an exaggerated last breath, Ralof let himself go limp in Hadvar's arms.

It seemed that although Ralof was well aware it was just a game, Hadvar was not. Upon witnessing his friend's 'death' was instantly inconsolable. He began to wail, grieving over Ralof's 'body' shaking him roughly and begging for him to get up. But Ralof wasn't aware that Hadvar believed that this situation was all too real. Alvor rushed over, picking tiny Hadvar up in his arms as his nephew blubbered about his friend's dramatic demise.

Alvor managed to convince Ralof that the game was over, and he needed to get up, Hadvar was beyond ecstatic to see the tiny Nord open his eyes and stand to his feet. It was a fight to pull Hadvar away from Ralof for the next hour. He was just glad his friend had gotten back up again to fight with him another day.


End file.
